Depth Perception (29 page)

"I do my time here in the emergency room once a week." Grimacing; he turned his attention to Nick and stuck out his hand, "I didn't properly introduce myself last time. Travis Ratcliffe."

Nick gripped his hand, all the while searching the other man's gaze, gauging his sincerity. "Nick Bastille."

Looking more than a little uncomfortable, Ratcliffe dropped Nick's hand and squinted down at the clipboard. "If I had been able to make out Margaret's writing, I would have known it was you in here and not Nate Jenkins. Giving a self-deprecating shake of the head, he forced a smile. “I’m afraid her writing is worse than mine."

"Travis, if I had known you were here, I wouldn't have-"

"Nat, come on." He cut her off by raising his hand. "I'm a professional. I'm not going to let anything personal between us interfere with my work here at the hospital. Okay?" He studied her a moment, his eyes narrowing. "Besides, from the look of that cut on your forehead, I'd say you need about four stitches."

"That's what I thought, too," Nick put in.

Regaining his composure, Travis looked down at the clipboard. "You were in a car accident this evening?"

Nat nodded. "Out on Pelican Island Road.”

"Narrow road. Parish needs to get it asphalted and put up a guardrail." Travis addressed Nick. "Were you in the car with her?"

"She was alone."

He looked at Nat. "How did you get wet?"

"The car went into the water," she said.

Ratcliffe made a doctorly sound of distress. "Damn. You're lucky it wasn't worse."

Pulling a small penlight from the pocket of his lab coat, he set his hand against her forehead and shone the light into first her right eye, then her left. "Were you unconscious at any time? Any headache? Confusion?"

Nat shook her head adamantly. "No. None of those things."

"Good."

She flinched when he probed the cut.

"Hurt?" he asked.

"Only when you stick your finger in it."

He chuckled. "Four stitches ought to do the trick." He gave her a reassuring smile. "Let me numb you, and we'll have you out of here in no time. Okay?"

Nat felt incredibly vulnerable sitting on the examination table in nothing but a flimsy hospital gown and wet panties. Her heart pounded in her chest as Travis donned a pair of examination gloves and prepared the needle and syringe for anesthetizing the gash.

The tension in the room was palpable. She was keenly aware of Nick standing by the door, watching them like a hawk. Travis made small talk and did his best to pretend that she was just another emergency room patient. He told Nick he could leave if he wanted to, but Nick opted to stay. As much as Nat didn't want to admit it, she was thankful.

"Lie down please." He moved the small pillow to the head of the examination table and patted it. "There you go."

The last thing she wanted to do was lie down, but she knew there was no way around it if she was going to get herself stitched up, so she complied.

"Cold?"

"No."

"You're shaking." He smiled down at her. "You're not afraid of needles, are you?"

"I don't like doctors."

He laughed, a practiced sound that might have put her at ease if she wasn't hopelessly tied up in knots. "Relax. Just a little pinprick, then you won't feel a thing. I promise."

Nick came up beside the table and surprised her by taking her hand. Nat looked over at him and tried to smile, but failed. Being treated by Travis Ratcliffe when there had been so much hostility between them was just too weird. She closed her eyes while he injected the numbing medicine into the wound.

"There. Should be completely numb in just a sec. Better?"

"All things considered."

"Good. Here we go."

While there was no pain, it was disconcerting to feel the tug of the needle as he sutured her skin.

"Nat, I know this may not be the most opportune moment, but I feel the need to apologize for the things my father said to you."

"Travis, you know I didn't hurt Ward or Kyle."

"I believe you. I've believed you from the start. It's just that Dad ... Well, he hasn't been the same since losing them. He's bitter and angry and--"

"All of us are bitter and angry," she said. "The last three years have been hell. Elliott's blaming me is only making things worse."

Nick spoke up. "Elliott Ratcliffe is probably part of the reason some son of a bitch tried to run her off the road tonight."

Travis's hand paused an instant before tying off the final stitch. "Someone deliberately tried to run her off the road?" He made eye contact with Nat. "Is that true?"

She nodded.

"Any idea who did it?"

"Maybe it was your old man," Nick said.

Travis made a sound of annoyance as he set his tools on the tray and lifted a sterile gauze to the newly sutured wound. "You can't possibly believe my father would do something like that."

"I don't know what to believe," she said. "An hour ago I couldn't believe someone was trying to kill me."

"My father might have said some terrible things to you in the past, but he would never harm another human being."

"He harms her every time he shoots off his mouth," Nick said. "It would go a long way in this town if he kept his trap shut."

Travis's mouth formed a thin line. "Look, Nat, there are any number of people in this town who don't like it that you're back. My father might be one of them, but he would never resort to violence."

Nick laughed. "Oh, that's rich. If we hadn't intervened yesterday, your old man would have tom into her like tornado through a mobile home park."

"He's never harmed anyone in his life." Snapping off his gloves, Travis tossed them into the biohazard receptacle with a little too much force. "He's sure as hell never killed anyone."

"You sure about that?"

Travis looked at him sharply. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Nat's heart began to hammer when Nick crossed the room. "Nick, don't."

Ignoring her, he got in Travis's face. "That means keep your family away from her. You. Your old man. And Hunt. You got that, Doc?"

Travis took a swift step back, his eyes darting to the door as if he thought he might need a quick route of escape. "I think you had better leave." He looked at Nat. "Both of you."

Nat could see Nick reining in his temper, and for the first time she realized just how angry he was about what had happened to her. While it was good to know he cared, she didn't think he was being fair to Travis. ''Wait a moment--" she began.

Travis cut her off by raising his hand. "It's okay. Just go."

Sliding from the table, Nat scooped up her wet clothes and left without looking back.

#   #   #

It had been almost a year since Hunt Ratcliffe had been frogging. He loved getting out in his sixteen-foot mud boat at night with a six-pack of Budweiser and some Acapulco gold. He'd grown up eating frog legs and considered them a delicacy. Bernard, the butler at Ratcliffe Plantation, had always fried up the best frog legs in the whole freaking world. But Bernard was too damn old to frog these days, and so the Ratcliffe men went without. Hunt figured he'd remedy that tonight.

Mort Cooper was supposed to go with him but begged off at the last minute. Mort had said it was because he wasn't feeling well, but Hunt knew better. That wife of his probably had him doing laundry or something. Nina Cooper had her husband pussy whipped so badly he would cower at the sound of her voice. Jesus H. Christ it was getting to where a man couldn't even be a man anymore without some bossy bitch telling him what to do. That wasn't going to happen to Hunt Ratcliffe. He'd spend his days jerking off before he let some mouthy female tell him how to live his life.

The moon illuminated black water that was as smooth as glass and teeming with duckweed. Mosquitoes and water gnats flew frenziedly around the light. Along the shore he saw the glowing eyes of the gators, heard the occasional slap of a reptilian tail. Maybe he'd nab a gator with his .22 while he was out here, too. Even if Bernard didn't cook it up fresh, Hunt could dress and freeze it for later.

Hunt motored down the shallow channel until he reached his destination, Edward Bayou, and shut down the engine. He scooted onto the rowing thwart and reached for his bag of weed, tapping a small amount onto a paper. He rolled the joint by the light of the moon, taking care not to drop any into the boat. The weatherman was calling for thunderstorms later, but Hunt didn't see any lightning. Hopefully, he'd be long gone before the skies opened up. Freaking mosquitoes were eating him alive, anyway.

He sat on the thwart and smoked the joint, watching the glowing eyes of a gator move slowly along the muddy bank. He thought about picking him off; he had a nice little Kimber semi-auto in his tackle box. But Hunt was pleasantly buzzed and feeling lazy.

"Lucky bastard," he muttered.

When the joint was spent, he tossed the roach into the water. Standing, he bent to retrieve a Budweiser from the cooler, popped the tab, and drank deeply, enjoying the cold rush down his throat. He set the can on the rowing thwart, then bent to pick up the gig.

When he'd been a kid, his daddy had brought him and Ward and Travis out here frogging. He and Ward had had a blast catching frogs with their hands and tossing them into the bag. Travis had been afraid of them. Hunt and Ward had teased him mercilessly, but Travis had never so much as touched a frog. He'd always been a pantywaist faggot about things like that. Hell, he was probably still afraid of frogs. The thought made Hunt laugh aloud.

He'd always thought it was a little spooky that Travis had grown up to become a doctor. As far as Hunt was concerned, some of the shit doctors did was a hell of a lot more disgusting than picking up a frog. He'd been doubly surprised when Travis ran for parish coroner. The position wasn't busy in St. Tammany Parish, but just the thought of cutting up some poor dead bastard gave him the heebie-jeebies.

Rising, Hunt started the motor. He took another swig of beer, then picked up the gig. He'd fastened the pronged spear to a long cane pole, which made it perfect for spearing frogs. Carefully, he maneuvered the boat through the shallow water to just the right place, then turned on the light clipped to the bow. Sure enough, right there in front of the boat a little pig frog's head was sticking out of the moss, looking at him. Grinning, Hunt drew back the gig, then slammed it down just behind the sacral hump on the frog's back.

"Gotcha, you little fucker."

He hauled the frog into the boat, then tossed it expeditiously into the bag. In the darkness he didn't see the approaching boat until it was practically on top of him. He straightened to have a look, but the powerful spotlight snapped on and shone right in his eyes. Raising his hand against the glare, he tried to identify who'd approached.

"Hey, cut the light, will you?" he said. "I can't see shit."

"Sorry." The spotlight blinked out.

Surprise rippled through Hunt. "What the hell are you doing out here?"

"Same as you, I guess. Looking for something to kill."

Hunt laughed. "Want a beer?"

"Sure."

Still laughing, Hunt bent to retrieve another Budweiser from the cooler. When he straightened, the spotlight was on again and drilling into his eyes. "Turn off that fucking thing, will you?"

He heard a resonant click an instant before a .22 caliber bullet plowed through his forehead and lodged in his brain.

#   #   #

Nick's temper was still pumping when he parked the truck in the driveway and shut down the engine. He knew better than to lose his cool, but he'd never had much tolerance for self-righteous jackasses like Travis Ratcliffe.

"You shouldn't have spoken to Travis that way," Nat said from her place on the passenger seat.

"Ratcliffe is a two-faced son of a bitch."

"He's been decent to me."

"Yeah, well, since he's such a sweetheart, maybe he'll go the extra mile and get his sanctimonious old man off your back."

Shaking her head, Nat opened the door and slid to the ground.

Nick sat behind the wheel and glanced .over at her through the open door. "We need to talk about what happened to you."

She slammed the door in his face.

Muttering beneath his breath, he got out of the truck and followed her inside. The house smelled like her. Sweet and warm with a hint of spice. He wondered how she could have such a profound impact on a house after only a few days. How she could fill it up without changing a thing. How she could make it feel like a home with nothing more than her presence.

Without speaking, she left him to take a shower. Nick knew he'd pissed her off, but there was nothing he could do about it, so he resolved to let it go. He wandered to the kitchen and checked the locks on the door and window. He found tea bags and put a kettle on the stove to boil. He heard the shower come on and tried hard not to picture hot water and fragrant soap sluicing over soft flesh. But his willpower failed, and he found himself remembering their encounter earlier in the day.

Her mouth had been wet and hot and full of promise. He remembered the way her breasts had molded beneath his hands. The soft hiss of her sigh in his ear. The tight buds of her nipples against his palms . . .

His response was powerful and primal and stopped him dead in his tracks. He went hard, then stood there wondering what the hell he was going to do about it. Not a damn thing, he assured himself. For now, he needed to focus on keeping her safe. On getting to the bottom of his son's death.

But Nick could feel the reckless need pumping inside him, taunting him. making him want things that would only bring him heartache. "Damn it."

Cursing the-discomfort in his groin, he walked to the dining room. He glanced down at the legal pad on the table. A chill passed through him when he saw the childlike scrawl.

Going to kill hem. In big danger. Help him.

Jason Larue. Find him mommy. The bad man coming.
I’m scared!

The message made the hairs at his nape stand up.